


voices and Voices

by probablyrivers (probablyamountain)



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: (i guess this is one now), (it's a slow burn bc you have to wait so long for the author to update hA), Gender-neutral Reader, Multi, Psychic Abilities, Slow Burn, unnecessarily gratuitous swearing by reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/probablyamountain/pseuds/probablyrivers
Summary: Psychics are all-knowing, able to look into the nooks and crannies people don't want them to. Or at least, that's what they're supposed to be. Hell if you know.Or, ironically the person who finds Eddie has no clue who he actually is.





	1. didn't see this coming

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for unfulfilled plot dreams, okay reader-inserts, and Eddie Brock. Here we go!

Friday night was like any Friday night in SF— cold, a hint of icy rain, and you, slumming down to Mrs. Chen’s to avoid any semblance of responsibility. You flashed a tired smile at said shopkeeper as you entered, immediately heading down the aisle of microwaveable dinners.

Hey, you were feeling fancy.

Having barely clawed your way from the hellish pit that was college plus several gap years, needless to say, you had to be economical. As a college student it had been one thing, but now, with debtors breathing down your neck like the monsters in the comics, it all felt a bit more _real_. Thankfully Mrs. Chen was a damn real one, with snacks and semi-actual food at actual human prices.

You were looking at some organized bentos when the door opening made you look up. Or rather, it wasn’t the door, but the instant hiss of _something_ , as if there was a voice crawling up the back of your nape.

Right. _That_. Your other responsibility that there wasn’t an escape to.

You scratched behind your right ear anxiously— a nervous tick from elementary school that you never quite grew out of.

They had told you it wasn’t schizophrenia (something about you ‘guessing’ the psychiatrist’s daughter was upset that their new puppy had had to go in to get shots). Instead, you were _special_. Their darling child who just sometimes heard voices (a few times you heard murmurs of _psychic_ as if that was supposed to make you suddenly understand derivatives).

Static began to pulsate louder inside your ears as if there was a pressure within your skull pressing down on your squishy little brain.

You clenched your fist at the thoughts and swallowed thickly. A glance at messy brown hair and an oversized hoodie made you think _average guy_. It was out of the norm for your brain to pick up on someone you’d never met— usually, it was people you’d formed a slight bond to, but hell if you were an expert on anything.

It hadn’t been acting up lately but, well, clearly you’d fucked up and life was paying you back. Slight murmurs were normal, expected— hell, even the occasional _left the stove on_ interluding your thoughts was manageable.

You bit down on your cheek as the pressure increased, _Okay just grab a bento, buy and go_. Easy.

Not.

Going to cash register equaled walking closer to the guy looking hungrily at chips. Closer proximity equaled _ow_. Simply dashing for the door, sinking-Titanic style, also held the same dilemma. Plus, then you’d be hungry for the night. Your stomach seemed to hear the crinkle of chip bags as the man cheerily handed them to Mrs. Chen, making conversation. They seemed familiar and you were sure the man was perfectly nice— you just happened to want to flee across the city from him because his brain had won the mind-combustion lottery with yours.

You walked further into the opposing corner of the store, a floppy gut sensation warning you that you were trapping yourself in, but the ease in the pressure in your head was worth it.

Just as you were planning a grand escape, the door clanged open, thankfully not bringing more voices with it. A quick look, however, had your stomach turning for other reasons. This man looked harsher than the first and the conversation instantly died. Not to mention, the store’s fluorescent lights had shined upon something less savory— _gun_. You made yourself smaller, fingers grazing behind your ear. _Deep breaths._

 _“_ Ay, where the fuck is my money?”

You _felt_ it— the waves of aggression and anger, and the slippery fear that hangs in the air, crawling into your lungs and becoming your own.

Stranger still than the unusual hyperactivity of your telepathy was the sudden snap in the pressure that had enveloped your mind in a static haze. It had almost become white noise, in a literal sense, blanketing your brain. But something had switched and _now_ you heard something. Something coherent, something that was—

 _Hungry_. _We’re so hungry_.

— suddenly you were seven years old again, clasping your hands over your ears as the other kids sneered and called you a liar. The _voice_ was almost worse than a migraine. It sent icy cold tendrils shooting through your nerves, freezing your body.

The same man who had entered boisterously, squeaked out, two octaves higher, “what the _hell_ is that?”

The gun was apparently forgotten about as a terrible cracking and popping noise occurred. You felt the fractures as if they were under your skin, crawling right next to the voice.

“ _And you are lucky we only gave you that. Pray that we do not find you_.”

The voice was  _outside_ your head. You choked back a scream and goddamn right you were fucking praying.

A hoarse whimper came from the man as he scrambled out, slamming the door open with his unmangled shoulder. As for you, you were now stuck with . . .

You closed your eyes, focusing and searching but . . . nothing. No static, no migraine, no _voice_. You peeked around the corner and, only seeing the shoulder of the man taking his chips (was that two bag fulls?) who was saying goodnight to a slightly pale Mrs. Chen, you deemed it safe to shakily get up.

You quickly grabbed a bento, not particularly caring at this point, and managed to pay without breaking into hysterical tears.

Mrs. Chen, who had seemingly recovered from _whatever_ had happened (a suspicious glance revealed no blood stains on the tiled floor . . .), had the audacity to look concerned for _you_. “You look strained,” she tutted your name in the way that mothers always do that conveyed equal amounts of affection and scolding, “they’re not overworking you, are they?”

Grabbing onto any sense of normalcy you can, you pointedly ignore mentioning the sounds even any normal person would’ve heard that night. You offered a weak grin, “ah, you know, it’s always long hours, scraping together rent for the month.”

Mrs. Chen _tsk_ ’d disapprovingly, “you’ll always have a job here if you just ask. You were always hard-working!” With that statement, she added in a powdered green tea mix (naturally, caffeinated) into your bag and you sheepishly thanked her.

Despite the cold sweat accumulating everywhere, you bundled up tighter, shopping bag tucked securely around your arm. The layers made you feel . . . protected.

“G’night, Mrs. Chen!”

You stepped onto the streetlight-bathed sidewalk, the warm glow betraying the cold wind that slapped your face. The contrast to the store was palpable and you almost considered going back. But then again, what if the _voice_ came back as well? _Fuck that._

It was only a few blocks to your messy apartment, but it was home and it freed you from the burden of owning a car. And so if living in the middle of the city with random gunmen and weird voices was what you had to do, it’s what you’d do. You kept imagining the voice at the back of your neck and you shivered, speeding up.

Different voices materialized in different ways to you— some felt warm, others cold. Sometimes it was pleasant, like picking up a wayward thought from a friend. Other times it was harsh, a pressure like before that made you feel wrecked. You thought you’d been getting better at separating the good and bad, focusing harder on ignoring them, just _trying_ to get a semblance of control in your life.

But then shit like this happened and you felt like you were right back at square one.

 _Her_.

You did the opposite of the smart thing to do and froze. It wasn’t your bravest moment when, outside of the voice in your head, you heard footsteps and a whimper whined from your mouth (you almost hadn’t realized it was _you_. Hearing voices did that).

“Hey."

You turned slowly, managing to croak our something along the lines of “I don’t have any money”.

A concerned, _familiar_ face stared back at you, finally illuminated in the light. It was the man, the _nice_ man. The one who talked to Mrs. Chen and said good night, real polite. He seemed to pick up on your nervousness and he held up his hands the best he could whilst still burdened by two bags stocked with an assortment of chips.

“Hey, hey, it’s chill, I don’t mean any harm,” his smile and tired teal eyes talked down the knots in your gut.

You swallowed. The static was back, faintly, as if it was being repressed (you wondered, for a moment, staring at this man who also looked so tired, if he was any bit like you. _Special_.).

He scratched the back of his head, nervous too. “I, ah shit, this sounds bad, I just wanted to talk. About, uh, back there,” he nodded towards presumably Mrs. Chen’s (you’re honestly not sure at this point. Your mind and cardinal directions have been pretty much fucked for the night).

He looked abashed, as if painfully aware of how abrasive he sounded, “er, do you know who I am?”

The part of you that loved criminal fiction leaped at the _he’s trying to eliminate all witnesses of his assault_ cliche and the thought distracted you as you blinked blankly at him. His face only felt familiar from the night . . . perhaps he was an escaped convict? You eyed the tattoos peeking from his sleeves in half-hearted suspicion (really, if the guy wanted to end you, he could probably sneeze and it would be the final straw for your poor brain).

In a far milder tone than your thoughts, you murmured, “I don’t recognize you,  sorry.”

The guy immediately looked relieved and you felt the tension ease (what can you say, having a window into other people’s thoughts had made you a people pleaser). There was also a shadow of confusion in his eyes and while his apologetic expression said _I know, approaching asshole territory_ , he pressed on, “are you sure? Never on, like, YouTube or something?”

You almost felt bad for the guy and the apparent distress this identity crisis was causing. Unfortunately, approaching one in the morning was also your limit of dealing with unusual surveys and you felt yourself about to crash.

You tossed out one of your dazzling customer service smiles (one from a long string of jobs), and made to move away, “I’m very sorry, but I need to go home. I'm telling the truth, I don’t know you.”

With that, you walked away, your dinner (early breakfast?) hitting your hip as you speed walked. He thankfully didn’t follow you but then you heard—

“Thomas!”

You turned around slightly, looking back incredulously.

The guy shuffled his feet, embarrassed. It’s almost cute except for the fact your heart is going laps and the adrenaline-fueled haze in your mind definitely isn’t love.

He scuffed his shoe on the pavement, lamely proffering his peace offering. “Thomas . . . uh, that’s my name.”

You only managed a weak smile and turned back around. At this point, you were bone tired— not even scared. Just a few more minutes until sweet bedtime.

_You’re just going to let them go?_

You didn’t stop this time, but you knew _he_ saw you flinch. You didn’t look back. The static faded away and you sped past an extra block and doubled back, checking the darkened streets as you walked. _Fuck_.

No more voices buzzed in your head. You didn’t stop until you made it inside your apartment stairwell, slowing as you approached your door.

Your hand trembled as you slotted in your apartment's key.

 _Fuck_.


	2. Night Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the protagonist spends most of the episode sleep-deprived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm flattered by the response to this! Thank you to all who commented :)  
> Sorry for the late post, but we're getting somewhere :,)
> 
> (1.8.19 - revised the chapter bc i really didn't like the original. also, i adjusted some pronouns bc of a foolish mistake on my part. sorry y'all)

_Warmth surrounded you, curling around and drawing you in. You saw figures in front of you, but the mass around you made you only want to sink deeper in._ Safe, _it seemed to murmur to you._ Protect you, _something slipped around your mouth. What would normally feel like a gag was . . . comforting._

_There was a muffled whimper behind you and you turned quickly, the form around you strangely sensitive._

_A woman sat, curled on herself. You smelled tears. Your lips felt papery and you licked them unconsciously—_ blood. _A coppery taste seemed to awaken something_ inside  _your gut. You felt a sudden dread and you looked down—_ nononono—

You snapped awake, the dim light from the streets outside greeting you. Sweat soaked the collar of your shirt. Rubbing sleep from the corners of your eyes, you blearily yanked the offending item off and groped around the dark for an acceptable replacement.

The chill was still there, almost amplified by the sudden absence of the strange warmth from your hazy dream. This is what you got for going to bed at unearthly hours.

Flopping back in your bed seemed like an . . . unattractive option with the remains of your fevered waking dampening it. You didn’t feel like just tossing a towel over the sweat like how you would most other nights.

Tonight (or this morning . . .) was a “try to look at the stars obscured by light pollution” kind of night.

You paused at the doorway, fingers grazing the icy knob. _Darkness dripped in front of your eyes like liquid mercury._ Not that. You’d always had nightmares, the side-effects of an overactive brain. One more than one night you’d dreamt about your neighbor’s chronic worries over her cat’s lustrous fur— not something you’d normally think could be made into nightmare fuel but, well, you had strange neighbors.

Shaking images of cats from your mind, you pushed the handle down and stepped into the surprisingly warm hallway. You followed the draft of air to the stairwell and climbed up, bare feet curling around the cool metal steps.

Fingers wrapped around the handle to the terrace and you placed your weight against it. _Click_ — the night air whirled around you and the sky opened up. Sitting down against the wall, you closed your eyes. The tendrils of your mind spread out, searching for . . . something. Anyone. The night was cold and you could only hear the whistling of the wind and gentle thrum of cars below. You wrapped your arms tighter around your legs, an empty sort of feeling settling in your throat that you couldn’t quite swallow down. Slow breathing, _in, out._

Here there was no Mrs. Chen, no weird robbers, no Thomas, no traffic, no troubles—

Your mind was an island, alone in a roaring sea that undulated in regular rushes of salt water. There was nothing on the horizon, nothing—

You stood up abruptly, hand automatically reaching out to open the door. _Out_. You wanted out. The vast expanse of the sky hadn’t had its usual calming feeling. It felt _lonely_.

A strange keen tore from your throat as you futilely pulled on the heavy stairwell door. The metal handle clanged down, adamant to refuse you. Fuck. _Fuck._ You felt an irrational, hot, messy bubble of anger surface. _Clang_. You kicked the door.

“Fuck!” It was almost cathartic.

You huddled back on the ground, rubbing your face, hand finding its way behind your earlobe. Your haphazard mix of clothing that served as pajamas wasn't doing much against the San Francisco night and you looked up mournfully. If you were lucky the wettest it would get was the cool mist that rose off the bay— if it started raining you might actually scream (more than you already had).

Shifting on the cement rooftop, you tried to angle yourself in a way that wouldn’t completely mangle your back before the maintenance guy came up to unlock the door and hopefully not shatter windows when he saw your bedraggled state.

You didn’t feel the slightest whisper in your mind as you accepted your fate, not that you were sure of any good establishing a link with anyone would do. You’d never been able to exactly communicate with the people you tapped into— instead of an actual radio, your mind was more like a humanoid dictatorship station: strictly one-way.

One would think to be able to read minds would have more perks than the unwieldy side-effects list.

You blew into your palms, tucking them into your sides in an attempt to not wake up with hypothermia. Squinting your eyes shut, you let out a huff. You were too tired to deal with this crap.

“Fuck you too, universe.”

* * *

 

“ _Hey_ , what’re you doing up here?”

Your eyes slid open with all the enthusiasm of a human being who had just gotten four hours of sleep ( _very_ rough estimate).

They fluttered a few times and then shot open when you realized, one, you were not dead or infected with some terrible rooftop-disease, and two, your apartment's maintenance man was in fact not leaping for joy at seeing some random person on the terrace.

You gradually made your way up, wincing at your creaky joints. A soft weight you hadn’t even noticed fell to the ground and a massive, woolen blanket entered your vision You blinked— shit, where’d that come from? You glanced up at the probably underpaid utility workman and smiled awkwardly.

“I’ll— uh,” you coughed a bit, trying to sound human. “I’ll be going. Uh, super sorry.” The two of you maintained eye contact as you shuffled to pick up the blanket, which was suddenly akin to attempting to wrangle a writhing eel onto a fishhook, and hastily made your way inside.

 _The epitome of beauty and grace, everyone._ You bit your cheek and made your way back to your apartment. It was still unlocked but apparently, even no thieves had been up whilst you were nocturnally suffering. You tossed the thick blanket onto your couch and made your way to the bathroom to clean up, the thought of rooftop diseases still lingering. You tried to avoid all eye contact with your probably pinched, I-want-sleep face in the mirror as you entered the shower. Nothing like regretting one’s dumbass decisions in the middle of the night to kick off the working day!

You finished up washing the feeling of grime off you and toweled off. After banishing your pajamas to a bin of dirty clothes and changing into a new set, you felt practically born again. You could almost forget everything that had happened in the past day.

Pushing those thoughts mentally _away_ , you booted up your computer as you changed to contemplating breakfast and your empty fridge.

Your job was a thankless one in the middle of the lower echelons of corporate hierarchy. You dealt with filing and organizing data and occasionally, when Lee called in “sick”, customer service.

But despite the dragging monotony of work, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, you got to work from the comfort of your own home and the pay wasn’t too shabby either. The actual work itself was the perfect combination of skilled labor that required just enough mental effort to be distracting— a useful quality when your brain kept drifting back to a certain hoodie-wearing not-robber.

Your hours were pretty much up to you but, as you popped in a packet into your instant coffee machine, you were starting to wonder if that was such a good thing. You resisted slamming your head into the wall. Ugh. _Tired._

You honestly weren’t sure whether or not to be grateful that your _other_ cause of headache wasn’t acting up— was the cosmos cutting you a break or just gearing up for a sucker punch?

But it was hard to stay tense when you were still a touch out of it from your weird night out and your mind was picking up soft nuances of your neighbor dreaming about something to do with petting dogs.

Your coffee machine beeped and you picked up your mug, a bit too hot, but the machine was a lovable mess that had stayed with you throughout the years. Plus it was rather nice that you could just unplug it whenever you wanted it to shut up.

Placing the mug on a stained table, you plopped onto the couch, laptop in arm. Your arm drifted over the blanket and in better lighting, you could see it was rather worn, in a well-cared for sort of way.

There was a sort of tug in your stomach, partially through guilt that someone had given this to you, partially through dread as you contemplated the possibility that it was the maintenance guy’s (which would then imply you return to the location of your shameful retreat). You absentmindedly graced your fingers over an embroidered label in the corner. You briefly wondered who Eddie was . . . .

You let out a deep breath, it was a problem for another time— one glance at your work inbox showed it was already stuffed. Honestly, you’d been gone for only six hours— perhaps you’d consider requesting a pay raise.

As the day wore on, a draft breezed in, you decided to risk the owner’s wrath and wrapped yourself in the blanket. Soft and comforting, it was surprisingly dry and was a much-needed comfort, the heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

_You’re just going to let them go?_

You flinched automatically and almost dropped the dregs of your coffee on yourself. _Shit_. You scratched behind your ear, registering the sounds around you. _A memory_ , you thought. The voice wasn’t in your apartment. Wasn’t close.

Staring down at your glowing computer screen you blinked and tried to concentrate, but the thought of the voice brought back the shivers. You hated that feeling— being helpless to the frequencies your dumb brain radio couldn’t _fucking shut off_.

 _I don’t mean any harm_. Thomas . . . what a strange guy. He’d sounded weary, tired of people running. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad person. It wasn’t as though it was his fault the two of you had been in the same place at the wrong time. You had been so distracted by the _voice_ that you hadn’t actually felt much coming off of Thomas himself.

You considered the scruffy man further— in retrospect he honestly hadn’t done too much wrong. Or rather, _anything_ wrong.

You wrapped yourself further in the blanket and hesitantly inhaled, hoping it wouldn’t just smell like city sidewalk. The soft fabric was a bit smokey, _musky_. It wasn’t . . . bad. Curling back you could almost imagine the sounds of traffic and city were nonexistent.

Alas, the caffeine beast inside your brain demanded more in compensation for work, and you sighed at your empty mug. You peered down at the clock on your computer monitor— 4pm.

Early enough that your favorite coffee shop down the street would still be open. If you were lucky, they would still have pound cake.

Finishing up a drafted email, you shut off your computer and pulled on a jacket. You mentally mapped out a route that would hopefully take you past the least amount of shady alleyways but, who were you kidding, it was San Francisco.

Locking your door, you headed into the golden afternoon, some sunlight streaming through the grey clouds that normally hung over the city. Despite the noise and bustle of the city, it was . . . peaceful.

There was a sort of order to the chaos. You shoved your hands in your pockets and continued on, the scent of smoke in your nose.


	3. Puppy Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you try to get coffee (it really shouldn't be a surprise that you mess that up too).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I had this drafted up ages ago, and then work hit me like a truck.  
> I've also been going back and editing some of the previous chapters, trying to fill stuff in. Hope this turns out to be somewhat cohesive!

Generally, the way one made it through San Francisco unscathed was as follows:  keep your head down and speed walk. Music helped, but sometimes you just needed to hear the white noise of the city.

It was almost ironic that it was being surrounded by thousands of people that could help your psychic powers dim. Maybe they too got overwhelmed.

You walked through a few blocks, avoiding eye contact, making do with the horrendous drivers. You tried to ease up— this was _your_ place. No weird-ass voice fucks were going to get between you and your coffee.

_Eddie . . . ._

You flinched. Dammit.

 _That name._ You tried to keep a steady pace, keep your heart inside your chest— but the invisible talons were already crawling, curling around your shoulders. It almost felt as if something was breathing on your neck, blocking out all rational thought as flight-or-fight kicked in. Your eyes darted around, _where was it coming from?_

_Not your fault, Eddie._

You stopped in place as you began focusing on the voice. Before it had seemed angry and full of vitriol, now it was calmer— _concerned_ . It was talking to . . . _was blanket-person also the thief?_ You were getting mixed feelings about your hypothermia-savior being a morally dark-grey person. At the back of your skull, you heard a hum as if the voice was _crooning_.

Now that the voice seemed distracted, you hoped you could just escape into the coffee shop— if the experience in Mrs. Chen’s was anything to go by, the thing didn’t like witnesses.

Your eyes focused on the glowing _open_ sign on the door, you literally tripped over a figure on the ground. _Shit_. Your mind instantly flashed through a courtroom, the gavel dropping, and being in jail for twenty-some years for assault— that’s how it worked, right?

You felt nervousness coil up in your gut before you realized, one, the voice’s presence was strangely gone from your mind and, two—

“Oh fuck, sorry, Thomas,” the words jumbled on their way out as you locked eyes with a pair of surprised blue.

You tried to act with the ease of someone who hadn’t been thinking of some random stranger they had met in unusual circumstances for far longer than what was probably normal. In retrospect, perhaps he wasn’t all that creepy (you were starting to suspect maybe  _ you _ were). 

He mumbled something incoherently before remembering the language of the living: “hey . . . .”

You peered closer at the guy— not that you had been staring too much the first night when you had kind of been running _away_ from him, but today he didn’t look too great. Dark, puffy eye bags and a pallid expression wearily smiled at you. Despite the slight apprehension curling up at remembering that night, your sympathy won out. Everybody had bad days, some people’s bad days just happened to be on nights when stores almost get robbed.

He really did look awful though. It was almost morbidly comical seeing him sit awkwardly on the side of the street.

You figured the least you could do after tripping over Thomas was to make clear that you no longer saw him as the shady street-lamp guy. Offering the olive branch of conversation, you spoke the first thing that came to mind, “you look like shit.”

You both blankly stared at each other for a moment. _Great job._ One would think constantly hearing voices would make you better at controlling your own. This is what scant hours of sleep got you (as if you needed more regret).

Thomas chuckled, thankfully not recoiling from your comment in disgust. “Thanks.” He had the air of someone who had been told this a lot. 

Eager to make a distraction from your social blunder, you gestured to the ground and then the area, “what brings you around here? You know they serve the coffee inside, right?”

Thankfully, Thomas seemed to find your asshole attempts at jokes somewhat amusing. Fantastic.

He shrugged, “yeah . . . I’ve just been . . . waiting?” His statement sounded like a question, as if he was confused about why he was even there.

You looked down at his shaky frame— despite being pretty solidly built, he just looked kind of . . . sad. Like the kicked puppy you had tried to save and then telepathically communicate with when you were seven.

“Er . . .” _Quick, think of something less douchey than the previous comment._ “Are you okay?” (A bit direct, but acceptable.)

You scrutinized him as he formulated a response. He was . . . pretty sweaty, the closer you looked. _Fever?_ The guy definitely shouldn’t have been on the streets. For a moment, the possibility that Thomas was homeless crept into your mind.

You broke out of your thoughts at his honest reply. “Not too great, honestly.”

Being attuned to others thoughts had naturally made you a sympathetic person over the years, and your heartstrings tugged at the distant look in Thomas’ eyes. _If he doesn’t have a home . . . ._ The idea popped into your head suddenly.

“Hey, Thomas, could you follow me for a bit?” You felt your neck get a bit hot at the unspoken implication— “ah, nothing like— not, uh, you’ll see!”

Thomas cracked a grin at your expense and you smiled back sheepishly. He followed you as you headed back to your apartment, trailing behind at a respectful, perhaps cautious, distance. He humorously nodded when you instructed for him to wait at the gate as you jogged up the stairs.

You unlocked your door smoothly, only feeling a twinge of doubt when you picked up the blanket and began to head back to the door. What if he didn’t want it? What if he was utterly disturbed and weirded out by a person he barely knew giving him an object they didn’t even own?

Regardless of his home state, Thomas could use the blanket far better than you or the previous owner did, you rationalized to yourself. Blankets, after all, didn't just teleport onto roofs.

You made your way down the last steps and came out the gate, half expecting Thomas to have left.

To your pleasant surprise, he was still wearing an unreadable expression (you would describe it as sucking on a lemon) slipping away as he noticed your entrance.

With all the grace of someone unaccustomed to having people to give gifts to (and _no,_  you’re not lonely), you shoved the haphazardly-folded blanket Thomas’ direction. “Here.”

The lemon face returned for a brief moment and your gut filled with a terrible, bottomless-pit sensation not unlike hearing the voice, but then it softened into something else. There’s a district fondness to Thomas’ eyes as he grasped the blanket and he smiled. Even without being able to hear the whispers of his head, you get the distinct feeling you’ve done something right.

“Thank you.” He paused for a moment as if debating something in his mind. He still wore that contemplative look, embarrassed to intrude on you (though you _were_ the one to trip over him). “Er, actually . . . I don’t think I ever quite got your name?”

There was something strangely intimate about finally revealing your name (and address, essentially). You swallowed down a stutter and managed to get it out without wheezing. You noticed the smile lines around Thomas’ eyes for the first time.

“I see, what a nice name!” The comment sounded surprisingly genuine when he said it. “I’ll suppose I’ll see you later, and thanks for the blanket back,” your name easily rolled off his tongue at the end of his sentence. You blinked slowly as he smiled and turned to walk away.

The world felt as though it had burst into color and for a moment, it was silent.


	4. Google

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you are not the stupid protagonist. Mostly.

How the hell could you have been so fucking _stupid_?

You had jumped back onto your computer, fingers barely grazing the keyboard when the thought at struck you: _thanks for the blanket back._

 _The blanket_ back.

You ran your fingers through your hair, several iterations of _what-the-actual-fuck_ s going through your head. “Back” would imply that he, Thomas, had previously had the blanket. Then, assuming that it wasn’t like some cousin’s stolen belonging, the “Eddie” then referred to the owner’s name, aka _not_ -Thomas.

Who the hell even gave out fake names? No one but shady people, that’s who!

On a whim, you Googled Eddie— it was a weird name and, honestly, considering the robber (yes, after this betrayal of trust _after_ you went through the thought of giving the guy the damn blanket, he’d been demoted back to potential-convenience-store-robber. Regardless of compelling evidence— one could never be _too_ certain) guy’s paranoia, maybe he _was_ some weird-ass, backwater criminal.

Nothing came up on the first page except for a clothing company, but considering not-Thomas’ fashion . . . enough said.

You tried adding in ‘San Francisco’ at the end. Damn, you were really getting Sherlock-y up in this business.

You weren’t honestly expecting anything until an article popped up— _damage charges dropped against former reporter, Eddie Brock_. You were a simple person— you saw the name you were looking for connected to another name that rhymed with ‘rock’ (because how fucking lame was that?), you clicked.

The blaring image you received through the glow of your screen froze you.

Oh _hell_ no.

He was a bit cleaner in the image and even had a half-assed button shirt on (though, personally you thought the scruff kind of suited him).

The what-the-fucks came back full force— you gave this dude your name _and_ address? You ran your hand through your hair anxiously. _Shit_. You clicked out of the article and scrolled down, finding several more similar headings, dating from a few months back.

_False allegations against Life Foundation by pseudo-reporter Eddie Brock, TRUE?? Charges against Eddie Brock dropped following renewed legal suits against Life Foundation. SHOCKING photos of Life Foundation testings— number 9 will give you nightmares!_

Oh, Jesus— this was just tabloid crap shoved into neat lines. You closed out of the tabs in disgust. _Okay, new tab. Work._ You tried to focus on the mundane tasks and ignore all thoughts including a certain reporter.

Half an hour and innumerable closed tabs later, you leaned back and sighed. The sun had set throughout your investigation, but despite the twilight, you didn’t feel _tired_ per se. You mostly just felt . . . crappy? Your poor body felt like a live wire after the scares it’d been put through the past days. Turned out nothing was a terrible replacement for caffeine.

You flopped back on your bed, an image of . . . Eddie in your mind. The shameless part of your mind wondered if he still did the whole journalism gig. It hadn’t looked like it had turned out exactly well for him last time.

At least he hadn’t been like the tabloid magazine writers that you’d been scrolling through— though “investigative journalist” was not a label that immediately came to mind when you had first seen Thomas ( _Eddie_ ). Your impression of those sorts of people had honestly been that they were  . . . more aggressive. Sure, there was a sort of swagger to the way Eddie walked, but it hadn’t really screamed the authority of _interrogation!_ to you (you didn’t really know much about investigative reporting . . .).

Your eyes lazily swept across your room and landed on the trashcan in the corner. Ah, shit . . . you’d forgotten to take it out again. Needing the break from your suddenly blaring white screen compared to the dim of your room, you wandered over to the can, checking inside.

There wasn’t too much inside, only a few wrappers, an empty carton of milk, and a crinkled bento container. _Shit._

You stumbled backward, hands shooting up to grip your head as pain lanced through it. You heard it— you could _hear_ _it_.

 _Close . . ._ We _smell them. Closer . . . ._

It felt as though whoever the _voice_ belonged to was playing the drums on your temples. You’d never experienced a voice that was so untamably _demanding_. You were no stranger to voices would popping in on your unsuspecting mind at the randomness of times, but they were simple to ignore— like sound of a noticable, but consistent rainstorm.

The voice from that night had been like a rainstorm that refused to listen to the laws of physics and drenched you, regardless of if your windows were closed.

And now it was back.

You could feel the sweat on your fingertips as your hand soothingly touched behind your ear. As a kid, you had like to imagine that there was a switch behind there— a semblance of control to the madness of actually being a fucking psychic.

_Crunch._

You stilled, the sound of your heart and a distinct hissing taking up your auditory senses. You’d never lived through a major earthquake before and didn’t know what one felt like (though, living in SF you had to cross your fingers), but you were positive the building had just _shaken_ . Your shitty apartment that had probably been built after the last major quake in the city just fucking _shook_.

The hissing grew louder in your mind (almost wetter?).

 _Oh god, oh fuck._ You were way too young to die— you still had, like, three fucking library books you’d yet to return. Because nothing else in your house was shaking, you just fucking _knew_ that it was something hitting your apartment (according to the action movies you watched as a teen, at least). Like, something _landing_ on your apartment.

The sound of bones breaking and the mysteriously disappeared almost-robber in Mrs. Chen’s flashed before your eyes. Was that to be your fate as well?

 _Please don’t kill me. Oh my fucking god, please don’t find me._ No half-assed gym classes would save you from whoever the voice was.

A new sensation permeated through you through the fear— _disappointment?_ Why the hell were you—

The heavy presence of the voice suddenly disappeared.

_Oh, thank fuck._

You leaned back against the counter that you had fallen against in your panic. You focused on breathing for a moment, _in and out._ Your heartbeat still stuttered at a hundred miles per hour and when you blinked you swore you saw stars in the overwhelming feeling of _relief_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly but surely I'm still working on this, haha. Thank you for the lovely feedback!


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